The shaking stopped. “Fine, fine, nothing wrong with me!” snapped Hamnpork. “Just a few twinges, nothing permanent!”

“Only I noticed you didn't go out with any of the squads,” said Peaches.

“There's nothing wrong with me!” shouted the old rat.

“We've still got some potatoes in the baggage—”

“I don't want any food ! There is nothing wrong with me!”

… which meant that there was. It was the reason he didn't want to share all the things he knew. What he knew was all he had left. Peaches knew what rats traditionally did to leaders who were too old. She'd watched Hamnpork's face when Darktan—younger, stronger Darktan—had been talking to his squads, and knew that Hamnpork was thinking about it, too. Oh, he was fine when people were watching him, but lately he'd been resting more, and skulking in corners.

Old rats were driven out, to lurk around by themselves and go rotten and funny in the head. Soon there would be another leader.

Peaches wished she could make him understand one of the Thoughts of Dangerous Beans, but the old rat didn't much like talking to females. He'd grown up thinking females weren't for talking to.

The Thought was:

It meant: We Are The Changelings. We Are Not Like Other Rats.

The kid and the girl and Maurice were in a large kitchen. The kid could tell it was a kitchen because of the huge black iron range in the chimney breast and the pans hanging on the walls and the long scarred table. What it didn't seem to have was what a kitchen traditionally had, which was food.

The girl went to a metal box in the corner and fumbled round her neck for a string which, it turned out, held a large key. “You can't trust anybody,” she said. “And the rats steal a hundred times what they eat, the devils.”

“I don't think they do,” said the kid. “Ten times, at most.”

“You know all about rats all of a sudden?” said the girl, unlocking the metal case.

“Not all of a sudden, I learned it when—Ow! That really hurt!”

“Sorry about that,” said Maurice. “I accidentally scratched you, did I?” He tried to make a face which said Don't be a complete twerp, OK? which is quite hard to do with a cat's head.

The girl gave him a suspicious look, and then turned back to the metal box. “There's some milk that's not gone hard yet and a couple of fish-heads,” she said, peering inside.

“Sounds good to me,” said Maurice.

“What about your human?”

“Him? He'll eat any old scraps.”

“There's bread and sausage,” said the girl, taking a can from the metal cupboard. “We're all very suspicious about the sausages. There's a tiny bit of cheese, too, but it's rather ancestral.”

“I don't think we should eat your food if it's so short,” said the kid. “We have got money.”

“Oh, my father says it'd reflect very badly on the town if we weren't hospitable. He's the mayor, you know.”

“He's the government?” said the kid.

The girl stared at him. “I suppose so,” she said. “Funny way of putting it. The town council makes the laws, really. He just runs the place and argues with everyone. And he says we shouldn't have any more rations than other people, to show solidarity in these difficult times. It was bad enough that tourists stopped visiting our hot baths, but the rats have made it a lot worse.” She took a couple of saucers from the big kitchen dresser. “My father says that if we're all sensible there will be enough to go around,” she went on. “Which I think is very commendable. I entirely agree. But I think that once you've shown solidarity, you should be allowed just a little extra. In fact, I think we get a bit less than everyone else. Can you imagine? Anyway… so you really are a magical cat, then?” she finished, pouring the milk into a saucer. It oozed rather than gushed, but Maurice was a street cat and would drink milk so rotten that it would try to crawl away.

“Oh, yes, that's right, magical,” he said, with a yellow-white ring around his mouth. For two fish-heads he'd be anything for anybody.

“Probably belonged to a witch, I expect, with a name like Griselda or one of those names,” said the girl, putting the fish-heads on another saucer.

“Yeah, right, Griselda, right,” said Maurice, not raising his head.

“Who lived in a gingerbread cottage in the forest, probably.”

“Yeah, right,” said Maurice. And then, because he wouldn't be Maurice if he couldn't be a bit inventive, he added: “Only it was a crispbread cottage, 'cos she was slimming. Very healthy witch, Griselda.”

The girl looked puzzled for a moment. “That's not how it should go,” she said.

“Sorry, I tell a lie, it was gingerbread really,” said Maurice quickly. Someone giving you food was always correct.

“And she had big warts, I'm sure.”

“Miss,” said Maurice, trying to look sincere, “some of those warts had so much personality they used to have friends of their own. Er… what's your name, miss?”

“Promise not to laugh?”

“All right.” After all, there might be more fish-heads.

“It's… Malicia.”

“Oh.”

“Are you laughing?” she said, in a threatening voice.

“No,” said Maurice, mystified. “Why should I?”

“You don't think it's a funny name?”

Maurice thought about the names he knew—Hamnpork, Dangerous Beans, Darktan, Sardines… “Sounds like an ordinary kind of name to me,” he said.

Malicia gave him another suspicious look, but turned her attention to the kid, who was sitting with the usual happy, faraway smile he wore when he didn't have anything else to do. “And have you got a name?” she said. “You're not the third and youngest son of a king, are you? If your name starts ‘Prince’ that's a definite clue.”

The kid said, “I think it's Keith.”

“You never said you had a name!” said Maurice.

“No-one ever asked before,” said the kid.

“Keith is not a promising name-start,” said Malicia. “It doesn't hint of mystery. It just hints of Keith. Are you sure it's your real name?”

“It's just the one they gave me.”

“Ah, that's more like it. A slight hint of mystery,” said Malicia, suddenly looking interested. “Just enough to up suspense. You were stolen away at birth, I expect. You probably are the rightful king of some country, but they found someone who looked like you and did a swap. In that case, you'll have a magic sword, only it won't look magic, you see, until it's time for you to manifest your destiny. You were probably found on a doorstep.”

“I was, yes,” said Keith.

“See? I'm always right!”

Maurice was always on the lookout for what people wanted. And what Malicia wanted, he felt, was a gag. But he'd never heard the stupid-looking kid talk about himself before.

“What were you doing on a doorstep?” he said.

“I don't know. Gurgling, I expect,” said Keith.

“You never said,” said Maurice, accusingly.

“Is it important?” said Keith.

“There was a magic sword or a crown in the basket with you, probably. And you've got a mysterious tattoo or a strange-shaped birthmark, too,” said Malicia.

“I don't think so. No-one ever mentioned them,” said Keith. “There was just me and a blanket. And a note.”

“A note? But that's important!”

“It said ‘19 pints and a Strawberry Yoghurt’,” said Keith.

“Ah. Not helpful, then,” said Malicia. “Why nineteen pints of milk?”

“It was the Guild of Musicians,” said Keith. “Quite a large place. I don't know about the strawberry yoghurt.”